


A Taste of Moonsugar

by NorroenDyrd



Series: It's O/K! [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Adventure & Romance, Cannibalism, Daedra, F/M, Falling In Love, Thalmor, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate to locate a rogue Thalmor agent, Justiciar Commander Ondolemar ventures out into the wilderness, hiring a rather quirky, perpetually cheerful young Redguard to protect him from various wild beasties - and finds himself inexplicably falling for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Moonsugar

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing has garnered quite a following on DeviantArt - but it is not for everyone, due to its not-so-serious nature.

The little barbarian's backpack might just as well have been a portal into a plane of Oblivion; there was no way any object of the physical world could contain so many beast pelts. She must have fished out at least ten while she was putting up camp - humming to herself all the time, of course; it was a miracle that this annoying habit of hers had not yet driven him insane. Or had it?  
  
Ondolemar shifted to make himself more comfortable. The pelts, wolf, bear, sabre cat, were piled up beneath him and over him, stifling him and making him want to sneeze. On the very first night out in the wilderness, he had declared that he was far too superiorly bred for sleeping on bare ground - and ever since then, the insufferable human would take it upon herself to wrap him up in a sweltering cocoon every time they decided to take a rest. Fighting her off, as he discovered, was no use. She dodged his shock magic with grace surprising for someone who gorged herself on so much food of dubious origin (he suspected most of those plentiful and utterly unhealthy snack breaks went to fuel her boisterous energy)... And if he tried to use physical force to push her and the pelts away from him, much as it disgusted him to touch a human, she ran her fingers over him (he believed the term was 'tickling'), making him gasp for breath with a surge of new, unfamiliar, shamefully pleasant feeling...  
  
So there he lay, the tip of his golden meric nose sticking out of a bundle of furs, staring up at the shimmering northern lights, trying to remember what day of the week it was. How long had it been since, after yet another report of failure from his underlings, he took it upon himself to go out and track down Sanyon, the rogue agent whose false leads had cost him several Justiciars? How long had it been since he stepped out of the Markarth gates, foolishly rejoicing in the thought that he was finally able to leave behind reams of cumbersome paperwork, forget about babysitting the so-called nobility of those bearded fur-clad heathens, and see some action, like in the old days before his promotion, when he got to actually burn the flesh of heretics off their bones? How long had it been since he hired that scatter-brain of a Redguard sellsword to guide and protect his precious self, his usual escort being needed to keep order in Markarth?.. The greatest, most unforgivable mistake of his life.  
  
Oh, yes, words could not describe how he regretted as much as thinking of beginning to consider the notion that the creature could be of use to him. She had led him in circles across the entire province, feeding him with empty promises to help him find Sanyon as soon as possible and constantly trying his patience with her ludicrous antics. Why in the name of Auri-El did he keep putting up with her? Her singing alone should have been enough for him to sentence her to death, using the authority given to him by the Aldmeri Dominion, and carry out the execution! Why?..  
  
His lips moved slightly as he asked this question to the indifferent moons; and then, his eyelids slowly slid shut, and weariness from climbing rock after accursed rock eventually took hold of him. His mind plunged slowly into sleep, and as it did, it grew crowded with visions, which kept surfacing from the waters of oblivion one after the other, bumping together like bulky floes of ice - snatches of recent memories, vivid, life-like, haunting.  
  
  
**They are standing side by side on a broad icy ledge, looking out into the boundless expanse of dazzling gold and tender pink spreading out before their eyes. The sun is rising over the Sea of Ghosts.  
**   
'Gods, how I love, love, love sunrises!' she exclaims, taking a deep breath of air and spreading out her arms, as if about to soar into the air, free, bird-like. 'Doesn't it make you wanna scream with happiness?'  
  
'No,' he replies dryly.  
  
She turns away from the sky and studies his face, trying and failing to appear serious. 'You still think I'm a lousy wilderness guide, don't you? Relax! I have a plan... almost. We've stuck together this far (or was it sticked together? Ah, whatever!). You've got to trust me! Do you trust me?'  
  
He hesitates to make a reply. He does not recall trusting anyone in his life. Ever. Not completely. Not even the other members of the Thalmor. Much less a human. A meddlesome, exasperating, almost unbelivably immature and irresponsible human. A human that was supposed to keep him out of trouble and has successfully managed to do the exact opposite.  
  
Her blue eyes stand out so vividly against her dark skin... She does not take them off him, not for a second, cocking her head to one side and awaiting his reply - and somehow, he cannot stop himself from saying,  
  
'I trust you'.  
  
She smiles at him, 'Great!'  
  
Still smiling, she bends down, scoops up a handful of snow, shapes it into a snowball with her nimble fingers -- and without any warning whatsoever, flings the snowball into his face...

  
  
  
**_She emerges out of a Nordic barrow, breathless, laughing. On her back, she is carrying a large round shield, which she promptly sets down on the ground, right on the edge of a steep descend down into a snow-shrouded valley._  
**   
_'Come on!' she urges him, doing a little excited dance in the snow, which creaks shrilly beneath her boots, making him wince. 'It's loads of fun, and much faster than going all the way down on foot!'_  
  
_'You have a horse,' he snaps, trying to back away from her._  
  
_She does indeed; it is rather hard to decide which of the two is more intelligent. The beast is nicknamed Spidey, for his inexplicable ability to climb sheer vertical surfaces like a spider, and has an apparent penchant for chewing on Thalmor robes when their superior owner is distracted._  
  
_She blocks his way, giggling,_  
  
_'Oh, Spidey will be sliding down too, on another shield. He is totally sliding-trained. I have a way with horses, you know. Many Redguards do, actually. Take my friend Shadr in Riften, for instance...'_  
  
_She talks on and on; her voice throbs inside him, resonating through his veins like silver bells ringing in an empty hallway; before he realizes what has just happened, he finds himself seated on the shield, crouching in a most awkward position, not at all befitting a mer of his status. She climbs on as well and puts her arms round his shoulders from behind; he starts violently at her touch - almost horrified at the burst of warmth it causes - and attempts to jerk himself free... But it is already too late - she kicks off, and they swoosh down through the scorchingly cold whiteness._  
  
_For while, he is blinded, deafened, stupefied; there is nothing left in the universe but the shrill ringing in his ears, the scraping of wind's claws inside his lungs, and the little human's fast, excited heartbeat somewhere at his side, penetrating his skin, drumming through his body, mingling with the frenzied pulsing of his own blood._  
  
_They land in the very middle of a snow drift, plunging into it head first; the sticky wet snow gets into his eyes, and nose, and mouth; he coughs it out with the desperate force of a drowning man, and emerges. Staggering to his feet, he brushes the snow off his robe, his lips curled in disgust- and suddenly, freezes right as he is, bending down slightly, stunned by the realization that there is a strange, utterly unfamiliar sound coming out of his mouth, strong, loud, intoxicating... Laughter._  
  
**_He laughs till he is too weary to take another breath, mentally screaming for someone to rescue him, to wake him from this insane fever dream. But salvation never comes. Instead, the horrid blue-eyed creature makes a loud, overjoyed squeal and leaps at him, arms stretched out for a hug. He dodges her grasp, making her lose her balance and drop back into the snow. She turns over so she can see his face, but does not get up; she remains lying there, on her back, her teeth glistening whiter than the surrounding snow, large soft flakes melting away on her eyelashes till they turn into sparkling, crystal-like droplets of water. He gazes down at her, brooding, silent, longing to send her pathetic little soul to Oblivion with a single well-aimed firebolt - and at the same time, mesmerized by the sight of her half-parted lips... There is a word for lips like hers - ah, yes. Kissable._**

  
  
_They are walking in single file, their steps slow and cautious, along a narrow strip of dry land between two deep, steaming, almost unnaturally turquoise lakes. The air is humid and stiflingly hot, and on both sides of their path steam comes gushing out towards the pale blue sky in thick sluggish white jets with an ear-splitting whistle._  
  
_The human is glancing around with eager, child-like interest, taking in the barren landscape of the volcanic tundra with the greed of a blind person whose sight has been miraculously restored. He has already become more or less familiar with this manner of hers - to gape at everything around her, even at what she has seen countless times before, as if it were something completely new; he has always found it exceedingly irritating... and at the same time, oddly touching._  
  
_Suddenly, abruptly, she stops, takes a deep breath, pulls her armour off over her head and flings it carelessly onto a nearby rock. For a few moments, she stands like this, in her smallclothes, flexing her shoulders. He can see her shoulder blades move beneath her bronze-shaded skin, which is crisscrossed by battle scars of various shapes and sizes - a reminder that, carefree and child-like though she is, she will take up her sword and fight to the last if need be. He has seen her fight - to protect him; has seen her gain a few of those scars... He wonders, suddenly, how they feel to the touch..._  
  
_At last, she kicks off her boots and leaps into one of the turquoise pools, with a tremendous splash._  
  
_'Go on in! Swim around a bit,' she says, bobbing up and down on the hot green waves, her eyes half-closed like those of a drowsily purring kitten. 'It's awesomely relaxing! I bet you never ever relaxed before; too busy being a stiff old meanie, am I right?'_  
  
_He makes no reply and turns away, a lump rising in his throat. He has forgotten when he last saw a woman... like this; for what must be the first time in an eternity, he realizes that the pain in his gold-skinned neck has a gender. And that his mouth is watering._

  
  
**He is sitting, huddled uncomfortably, among the gnarled, twisting roots of a gigantic tree. The evening fog is creeping in, so dense that he can barely see his own fingertips. Somewhere beyond its milky white veil, the forest is living its nocturnal life, sighing, groaning, rustling.  
**   
He shivers and shifts uneasily, pulling up his robe collar and frowning at his own thoughts. He has just been through yet another quarrel with his wilderness guide. It started with him mustering all his reserves of venomous sarcasm to launch a verbal attack on her and ended with him storming off, head thrown back proudly, intending to finally rid himself of his insufferable human companion and head back to Markarth on his own.  
  
It all looked perfect in theory - arriving at the Understone Keep, issuing an arrest warrant for one Kiara the Redguard and making her pay for all these days of constant humiliation.... But in reality, though it has hardly been a few hours since the start of his solitary wanderings, he is already missing her. Missing her terribly, desperately, with every tiniest fibre of his being.  
  
He does not dare look up, for every blurred greyish shape around him seems to him to be her shadow, approaching him through the fog; he does not dare listen in to the whispers of the night, for every sound seems to him to be the echo of her voice, calling out that degrading, shortened version of his name. Lemmie...  
  
He longs to return, to see her again, to hear her ringing laughter, to suffer at her hands when she thinks up some ridiculous game or other; the longing builds up within him, heart-wringing, suffocating... Finally, he cannot bear it any longer; he gets up and strides off into the white emptiness, with an impossible, insane notion of retracing his steps to their campsite.  
  
She will find him, some hours later, cornered by three Spriggans, whose slumber he will have inadvertently disturbed. Without a word, she will help him tackle his adversaries, and after the matron and her two daughters finally retreat back into the murky depths of their grove, she will grip his arm, a little above the elbow, in a silent, reassuring gesture, which will cause a slight jolt beneath the chest buckles of his robe - and together, they will set up a new camp for the night, never ceasing to bicker...

  
  
**_He is making his way up a winding forest path, his face impenetrably expressionless (or so he thinks), his fingers tightly intertwined behind his back; and the human is racing, colt-like, by his side. It is high noon, and the undergrowth it dappled with spots of golden light, like drops of spilled honey... He shudders at having made this mental comparison; it seems that his companion's affinity for excited, wordy descriptions has began to affect him, as have so many of her other habits._**  
  
**_They have been arguing on history and theology, along the usual lines, the little Redguard shocking him with her utterly heretical way of thinking (she makes the most ridiculous claims about the outcome of the Oblivion Crisis and the supposed return of Umaril the Unfeathered in the late Third Era) - and then, completely out of the blue, she decides to change the subject._**  
  
**_'Say...' she begins, reaching down to pick a flower from the side of the path. 'There is one absolutely cute little Nord superstition, has to do with flowers. You pick a flower, and pass it across your chin, and if there's some - What's that stuff called? I keep forgetting - ah, yes, pollen... Yeah, if there's some pollen left on your face, it means you're in love with someone. I've tried it a few times, and I always turn out in love... Which is totally true; there is so much to love about this world, isn't there?'_**  
  
**_'Keep that disgusting little plant away from me!' he cries out, shielding his face._**  
  
**_But she is too quick for him; in one brisk, swipe-like movement, she manages to brush the flower against the tip of his once neat goatee, which he has most shamefully neglected for several days. In blank horror, he lifts his gloved hand to feel his chin; when he dares to look at his fingers, he discovers distinct traces of thick, bright yellow pollen..._**

 

  
  
Ondolemar woke up with a start, his hand still groping his face. The moons were still shining in the sky, now sailing slowly towards the horizon, and the insolent waterfall that had kept him awake half the night with its rumbling noise was still pouring down on the left side of the rocky ledge where they had made camp. He glanced around, and soon enough his eyes, aching with the effort, registered the black silhouette of Spidey the steed, who was chewing drowsily at some dry grass, and the slightly dimmer outlines of the human and that abominable talking hound of hers, so fond of making snide remarks precisely when Ondolemar thought that things could not get any worse. They were sitting a little way off, heads close together. Plotting something. Against him, most likely. He threw off the pelts to be able to move more freely and shifted a little closer, stiffening and straining his keen elven hearing. And soon enough, he began to discern what sounded like a very heated, though whispered, debate.  
  
  
  
'Kiara girl', Barbas said firmly, 'You can't frolic around like this forever! We have better stuff to do, he has better stuff to do - well, better from his obviously bad point of view...'  
  
'Well, what else is there to do _but_ frolic?' Kiara objected. 'Such a funny word, by the way... I can't just lead him to Reachcliff Cave!'  
  
'And why not?' Barbas asked with a small snort. 'Good riddance, if you ask me'.  
  
'Don't be so mean!' Kiara sounded as if she was on the verge of bursting into tears. 'We must keep him from finding Sanyon! Ever! If he finds him and his gang, he is dead!'  
  
'Oh please', Barbas drawled; Ondolemar could picture the infernal hound rolling up his eyes. 'He is not a child! He can handle himself. And if he can't - well, he's only a Thalmor. No big loss here'.  
  
'He is not just _any_ Thalmor...' Kiara's voice was now so quiet that Ondolemar could barely hear what she was saying.  
  
'Huh? What makes him special all of a sudden?' Barbas sneered.  
  
'I...' Kiara swallowed, faltering. 'I... He...'  
  
_'You filthy little liar!'_  
  
Ondolemar had no patience left for any more eavesdropping. He sprang to his feet and, emerging suddenly out the darkness behind Kiara's back, grabbed her by the collar of her armour, lifting her slightly into the air and almost strangling her. She arched her eyebrows, staring at the vein that was pulsing in his neck.  
  
'You knew where Sanyon was all along - and yet you had the audacity to drag me halfway across this hole of a province and back again without saying anything definite! _I have a hunch where he might be',_ he sang shrilly, mimicking Kiara's manner of speaking. _'Trust me, and we will find him someday!_ Well, it seems that my trust was misplaced!'  
  
'Please,' Kiara whimpered. 'I can explain...'  
  
Ondolemar's lips parted in a malicious leer, 'Do you have any idea how many times I heard that line before? Spare me your pathetic nonsense!'  
  
With force fed by boiling rage, he flung Kiara down on the ground and cast a paralyzing spell on her,  
  
'I am done with you. This time, I will not be coming back'.  
  
'Hey!' Barbas barked indignantly, dashing after Ondolemar, who, after giving Kiara a farewell kick, had promptly mounted Spidey and was about to ride off into the wilderness. 'That's our horse, you... you criminal scum! Fancy that, I still remember running gags from two hundred years ago...'  
  
Without deigning as much as to turn his head to see what was that mangy thing bouncing about at his mount's hooves, Ondolemar spurred Spidey with his boots. The poor steed reeled to his hind legs with a slightly offended neigh and galloped down the mountain path, raising a cloud of dust.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The hunger was always there, no matter what they did or where they went. Awake when they were asleep. Singing inside of them when all else was silent. Laughing when on the outside, they appeared serious or indifferent - a delirious, drunken laughter that swallowed them whole, sucked them in like a bog with blood-red waters.  
  
The hunger had a mind of its own, imperious, impatient; its demands never ceased; it planted visions inside their minds... Visions of raw, steaming flesh being torn by their teeth, visions of crimson life juices spurting out, scorching their faces, moistening their parched lips... The visions enthralled them, and they did the hunger's bidding, feverish, quaking, always, always trapped in the clutches of the dark addiction that their Lady had blessed them with.  
  
The hunger had to be sated, and their usual offerings were nowhere near enough. The beast living inside each of them craved more, so much more than the dry, stringy flesh of the Nord dead - and at each of their secret meetings in the sanctuary of Reachcliff Cave they would gather round Eola, their eyes mad with bloodlust, and demand a different feast, different flesh, warm, succulent, still tasting of life.  
  
And every time, Eola would say to them, with a reassuring smile, 'Patience, brothers and sisters. Soon, the Redguard child that helped us reclaim our shrine from the Draugr will come back, bringing with her a fresh kill for us'.  
  
'We repel her,' Sanyon, the recent Altmeri newcomer, would object, in a hoarse, hungry voice. 'She will never come back. She said as much - in her wordy, confusing manner'.  
  
But Eola would only shake her head in reply, 'Namira spoke to me in a dream after the child's departure, and promised a feast of living flesh upon her return'.  
  
In the end, Eola's vision was proved to have been right -- though not too exact...  
  
  
***  
  
  
During his gallop towards the cave, and the descend into its depths, Ondolemar had been drawing vastly diverse but invariably gratifying pictures of himself apprehending the rogue agent. They all dissolved, however, the instant he crossed the threshold of the chamber at the end of a narrow, stuffy passageway, littered with mangled, desiccated corpses in dark armour with a film of mildew. The sight before his eyes jumped out at him so abruptly that he had to blink a few times. This was not at all what he had expected.  
  
He lingered for a moment, taking in the grim, gaunt-faced, silently malevolent figures seated around a long, abundantly laden table, in the shimmering light of thin dark candles - and then, with a small start, reached out for his mace, having recognized one of the mirthless revellers as his runaway subordinate.  
  
Sanyon noticed his movement; as he rose slowly from his seat, the corners of his lips twitched, displaying a row of uneven, yellowish teeth, smeared in something deep crimson. He approached Ondolemar, who was watching him unblinkingly with eyes of blazing green and amber, like a cat about to pounce, and stretched out his hand in greeting.  
  
'It has been a while since we last spoke, Commander. I suppose you are expecting me to give you an explanation...'  
  
'Any _explanations_ you have in store will have to wait until the official interrogation,' Ondolemar said coldly. 'You have breached our code of conduct. You are a traitor to the Thalmor cause, a traitor to the Dominion - and you shall be tried as such'.  
  
  
The people at the table exchanged looks of mild, almost amused surprise. Ondolemar's nostrils flared: during his purposeless wanderings across Skyrim together with Kiara he had had more than enough of not being taken seriously.  
  
Sanyon shook his head from side to side and breathed softly,  
  
'Your words bear no meaning to me, Commander. I have moved past being a Justiciar. Even though nobody cared where the bodies went after the purges and I was free to do as I pleased, serving the Dominion was not enough to satisfy my... urges. Lady Namira has opened a new path for me'.  
  
Ondolemar's pupils dilated slightly. So that was why his agent hadn't been heard from for so long... He had taken to Daedra worship!  
  
'I think I have heard enough,' he said stiffly, flexing the fingers of free hand.  
  
His lightning bolt dissolved with a barely audible sizzle before it reached its target, absorbed by a magical ward, which had been cast in front of Sanyon, the instance his former commander made a move, by a one-eyed human woman in light armour. She had been sitting next to the rogue agent, and throughout the entire conversation it had seemed as if she was barely able to suppress a loud burst of triumphant laughter. Before Ondolemar had time to recharge his spell, she came up to him and attempted to pass her hand provocatively over the buckles of his robe; he grabbed her by the wrist with such force that he could almost hear the dry crackling of her bones. And yet, her face remained unmoved.  
  
'Come now, stranger', she murmured, her only eye narrowing, 'Why won't you and Sanyon try to settle this little quarrel of yours amicably? We have a feast prepared; let it become a feast in celebration of peace between the two of you. You look travel-worn; rest, and then you can join us...'  
  
Suddenly, Ondolemar's eyes began to sting, as though from lack of sleep. His head grew heavy, and the entire world round him seemed wrapped in a thick layer of cotton wool. So, they thought they could cast an Illusion spell on him? Did those heathens seriously think they were any match for him - a high-ranking Thalmor, trained in all schools of magic (save for that utterly useless area of study, Restoration)? He pressed his eyelids shut and tore them open again, breathing heavily - as one does to get rid of nausea.  
  
'You filthy Daedra-worshipping maggots,' he slurred, struggling to focus on the woman in front of him. 'Your tricks won't work on me! That blue-eyed Redguard thought that you would kill me! Bah! The little fool!'  
  
A feral glint flickered faintly in the Namira worshipper's only eye.  
  
'A blue-eyed Redguard?' she sung silkily. 'We know her... Come and rest, and think of her - and when you open your eyes, she will be here...'  
  
He had been so close to clearing him mind, to freeing himself from the spell - but the moment the woman said those soothing, ingratiating words, he dropped all defenses. And once again, his inner vision became completely obscured by a patchwork of images. Kiara. Laughing. Singing. Sticking her tongue teasingly at him. A blue-eyed nuisance. An incorrigible blasphemer. Careless. Erratic. Annoyingly friendly. Beautiful...  
  
The elven mace clattered down to the stone floor from the Thalmor's limp hand. Smiling dreamily, Sanyon lifted his hand to his mouth to wipe off the hungry drool with his sleeve.  
  
  
***  
  
  
During her secret negotiations with Skjor and Aela in the Underforge, Kiara had been torn apart by a rather complex dilemma. On the one hand, she had always wanted to 'hang out' with the Circle, as its members more than lived up to her definition of 'cool'. But on the other hand, turning into a ferocious, man-eating mound of hair and muscle, howling at the moons and mauling people to shreds is hardly the best way to pass the time when you would much rather play tag with children in the street or snack on a delicious sweetroll or several dozen...  
  
In the end, she still settled on accepting the gift of Aela's beast blood, because apart from the said howling and mauling, being a werewolf does have a few perks that even a pacifist may find quite useful. One of them is the ability to run on all fours with such speed that you can - if you put a good mind to it - outrun a carriage.  
  
Kiara had had more than one chance to fully appreciate this advantage, and catching up with Ondolemar - as soon as she recovered from his paralysis spell and blew her nose a few times - was no exception. Leaving Barbas behind, with the instructions to 'be a good puppy while mamma's gone', she transformed into her second, much less genial, self, and started what she would later call 'the Rescue Lemmie Marathon'.  
  
Thanks to the astonishing muscle power of her wolf-like paws, and to knowing more than a few shortcuts, she actually managed to arrive in Reachcliff Cave before Ondolemar, and as soon as her heart stopped doing a frenzied war dance in her chest and her head stopped swimming after all those hours of seeing nothing but rocks and trees rushing past her in a colourful haze, she reverted to human form, crept inside and hid in the shadows, watching, waiting.  
  
She let Ondolemar stride into the inner sanctum of the Namira cult unhindered, because, as she had been told by the finest masters of the Bards' College, the hero must rush to the rescue only at the most dramatic moment. So she remained crouching in a darkened corner, biding her time.  
  
In the meanwhile, Eola ordered the enthralled Ondolemar to lie down on the enormous altar jutting out of the feast halls murky depths, an insect-like shape leaning over it, rather like a hungry child leans impatiently over a soup bowl (a comparison which occurred to Kiara quite in spite of herself, making her stomach contract sickeningly and her flesh crawl).  
  
The Thalmor obeyed, his face so terribly expressionless that Kiara had to bite hard at her fingernails in order not to sob out loud. And as soon as he settled on the altar and closed his eyes, Eola asked, in a loud voice that trembled with anticipation, who would take it upon him- or herself to carve the first piece; it was then that Kiara decided that the level of drama was just about enough and leapt out of her hiding place with a most heroic,  
  
'How about... _no one?!'_  
  
Eola turned to face her, teeth bared,  
  
'You have returned. I knew you would eventually heed the voice of Namira. I will be more than happy to allow you to partake of tonight's feast'.  
  
'I am not partaking of anything!' Kiara exclaimed, unsheathing her sword (autographed by Eorlund Grey-Mane while it was still red-hot, upon her urgent request). 'This is _my_ Thalmor, and you are _not_ touching him!'  
  
It was only after blurting out that phrase that she felt someone's unseen, scorchingly hot hand finger her neck and cheeks, leaving flaring hot spots in its wake.  
  
Eola did not seem to mind her flustered state too much. She merely asked, 'Is that so?'. And as it usually happens in such cases, her words were followed by utter pandemonium.  
  
  
Among all the spell-casting, and sword-brandishing, and urn-throwing, Kiara did her best to take out Eola, Sanyon and his female companion without hurting the three Markarth commoners she had come to regard as friends. But finally, there came a moment when Eola stopped coughing and writhing, caught in the clutches of a blood-freezing Destruction spell, and lay still, her sly, silky voice silenced forever, her face a pallid mask of wax. When Sanyon sank to his knees, his face earthy-grey and glistening with cold sweat, his fingers clawing at the dark wet spot spreading rapidly across his chest where Eorlund's masterpiece had struck him. When the sultry elven lady whose name Kiara kept forgetting used a fire ball to knock the sword out of her adversary's grasp, but moments later, dropped down on the floor - among the piteous remains of the sizeable burial urn that the-disarmed-yet-still-valiant heroine had hauled at her... And then, after those of the cultists that Kiara considered to be more dangerous were finally defeated, she found herself suddenly cornered by Hogni, Lisbet and Banning.  
  
They advanced at her in silence, their faces twisted beyond recognition, hunger blazing in their widened, unblinking eyes, glaring out of their half-opened mouths, greedy, gaping mouths with parched lips. Kiara smiled at them sheepishly; they did not respond in any way, still closing in on her, still silent. She closed her eyes, her heart sinking. She had already used her beast power, her magicka had still not replenished, her sword was still lying in the dust at her feet, and she was desperately out of urns... There was no way out of this nightmare. Except, of course, for one thing. The Thu'Um.  
  
Kiara opened her eyes again, blinking off tears. Not tears of fear - tears of pity, and regret. And just as the tiny salty drops rolled down her cheeks, Lisbet touched her hand; her fingers were hard and cold, like those of a skeleton. Her nails dug deep into Kiara's flesh till blood came out; Lisbet leaned down to lick it off, smiling.  
  
'I am sorry...' Kiara whispered shakily. 'I really have no choice. I thought we could be friends...'  
  
She had never pronounced the three words of her favourite Shout with less force, less enthusiasm, less 'oomph' (as she would usually call it). Her 'Fus Ro Dah' was barely more than a quiet, melancholy sigh -- but it still had its effect, knocking the remaining cannibals off their feet and pushing them into the far end of the chamber.  
  
She left them to slide down the wall without a second glance and perched herself on the edge of the altar, where Ondolemar still lay, his left hand resting on his chest - which, to Kiara's great relief, rose and fell steadily. The Thalmor was fast asleep. She had no idea how to wake him - whether this enchantment required some sort of counter spell or all she needed was give his superior shoulders a good shake; so she decided to sit by his side for a while, and see if he might come to his senses on his own.  
  
Trush be told, she had always liked watching him sleep and would spend many a night watch at their campsite hugging her knees and gazing into Ondolemar's face, smiling tenderly. He looked so peaceful, with his eyelids fluttering and the lines on his face no longer hard and tense; it almost made her forget that he was a Thalmor. It did not really matter when he was asleep. Politics, wars, religious debates - they all seemed to fade aaway, leaving just an Altmeri man that lay before her, content, serene... and so very, very handsome.  
  
Kiara sighed wistfully, feeling the blush flare up again. Ah, that smooth golden skin, that curved nose, those chiseled cheekbones, and that adorable little silvery villainous beard... And the lips. No longer tightly pursed or curled in disdain. Slightly parted - almost smiling.  
  
She gripped her own throat, her eyes widening, her heart thrashing through the skin against her fingertips. What... what was that thought forming in the back of her mind - faint at first, but growing more persistent with every second?.. Bad, bad thought - why did it refuse to crawl back into the darkness of her subconscious and stay put there?.. She had never kissed anyone on the lips before. Ever. There had been playful cheek pecks every now and again, but nothing like what she was yearning for now... This was so... so not right.  
  
She tried to remind herself that, though fast asleep, 'Lemmie' was still a Thalmor, still mean and snooty and, to put it in smart words, potentially dangerous. She tried to make herself get up - or at least turn away - but could not. The thought now consumed her mind like wildfire, making reason squeal and squirm and slink away, whimpering. With a shuddering intake of breath, she bent down and pressed her lips against Ondolemar's.  
  
This did not feel anything like what the books said, like what others seemed to be feeling when, at rare awkward moments, she ran into them caressing each other, faces glued together. Not sweet, or hot, or, what's the word, exhilarating. Just slightly wet. And kind of pointless. She was just about to lift her head, disappointment curling up in the pit of her stomach like a nasty little icy snake - but then, something happened. Ondolemar stirred, and opened his mouth wider, and slid his tongue between her lips.  
  
If she could, she would have screamed. She would have let every nerve in her body, every vein drawing blood from her heart scream so loud that it would have made the stone ceiling crack. Not because she was afraid. But because, for no reason at all, she was feeling so overwhelmingly happy... Not that she had a chance to scream anyway. He was stifling her, forceful, intrusive, discovering nooks in her mouth that she did not even know existed. And gradually, the first joyful daze fading away, she found it in her to follow his example with her own shy, quivering tongue. It was rather like the stories she had heard about the rise of the Aldmeri Dominion: the elven troops invaded Hammerfell, but after some mighty fierce fighting, the Redguards drove them back...  
  
Somewhere in another world, she felt his right hand slide across her back. And then, jolting completely awake and opening his eyes, Ondolemar broke the kiss. Kiara scrambled to her feet, coughing; the Thalmor lifted himself on one arm, his face instantly changing into the usual icy mask.  
  
'I give you a chance to run,' he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth. 'If you are fast enough, I might not kill you'.  
  
He did not have to tell her twice. Racing out of the cave and stumbling over rocks, she thought of countless witty replies that she could have teased him with. Why hadn't she said something like, 'Hey, what about a thank-you for saving your life?' or 'You call yourself a supper-bread mer, but you don't taste anything like bread!'. No, she just had to grin at him stupidly and obey him when he ordered her to run, with her mind completely blank save for the memory of the kiss! Barbas would laugh at her for days for this...  
  
  
Back in the Dominion, during a raid on some Khajiit smuggler den which was rumoured to be a secret meeting place for dissidents, an old catman had pounced at Ondolemar, brandishing a bowl of moonsugar in front of his face. The fool had hoped to bribe the Thalmor with his produce and coax them into leaving him alone. Ondolemar fought him off, naturally, but the mangy old furbag was so persistent that some of the foul substance still managed to get into his mouth. He spat it out - but before doing so, had enough time to distinguish the taste. The little Redguard tasted the same way, only much, much stronger. Sweet. Slightly spicy. And sending a sharp, pleasant tingle from the tip of his tongue through his entire body. His only hope that this taste would not prove to be addictive. Otherwise, he would be ruined.


End file.
